There are break-up poems and there's this Sappho break-up poem, still next-level despite inventing the genre. The papyrus has lost much of its words, but what it hides only adds to the shock.
It's honest this ardor of death.
Oh the leaving, shatters on the marble floor.
Can't be told one time, many more.
Our mark, our passion, permanent.
"Sappho, when I leave it's with your will."
But I answered her, obedient,
"Be glad that you got rid of me,
Remember your witness, how you were pursued.
The other you, the other I,
We suffered the beautiful."
Palace of our lavender rose
Enclosed by crocus, the garland
You slipped on, willing, we were all-encompassed.
My necklaces harnessed your heart
In weaves around the supplest neck.
How you toss off lightly the beauty you've made.
So much ... oil, it breathes with our rose.
You smeared yourself 'til you were sealed,
Made royal.
You melted into the pillows
... Yielding ...
Accomplished your longing.
It wasn't me ... it wasn't you,
It was a temple from which we were excluded.
No sacred grove ...
Dancing ...
The sound of falling.
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τεθνάκην δ’ ἀδόλως θέλω·
ἄ με ψισδομένα κατελίμπανεν
πόλλα καὶ τόδ’ ἔειπέ̣ [μοι·
̔ ὤιμ’ ὠς δεῖνα πεπ[όνθ]αμεν,
Ψάπφ’, ἦ μάν σ’ ἀέκοισ΄ ἀπυλιμπάνω.’
τὰν δ’ ἔγω τάδ’ ἀμειβόμαν·
̔ χαίροισ’ ἔρχεο κἄμεθεν
μέμναισ’, οἶσθα γὰρ ὤς σε πεδήπομεν·
αἰ δὲ μή, ἀλλά σ’ ἔγω θέλω
ὄμναισαι [. . . .] . [. . .] . .αι
[ ] καὶ κάλ’ ἐπάσχομεν·
πο̣[λλοις γὰρ στεφάν]οις ἴων
καὶ βρ[όδων κρο]κ̣ίων τ’ ὔμοι
κα . .[ ] πὰρ ἔμοι περεθήκαο,
καὶ πό̣[λλαις ὐπα]θύμιδας
πλέκ[ταις ἀμφ’ ἀ]πάλᾳ δέρᾳ
ἀνθέων ἔ̣[βαλες] πεποημμέναις,
καὶ πο̣λ̣λ̣ῳ[ ] . μύρῳ
βρενθείῳ . [ ]ρ̣υ[ . . ]ν
ἐξαλείψαο κα̣[ὶ βασ]ι̣ληίῳ,
καὶ στρώμν[αν ἐ]πὶ μολθάκαν
ἀπάλαν πα . [ ] . . .ων
ἐξίης πόθο̣[ν ] . νίδων,
κωὔτε τις[ οὔ]τ̣ε̣ τι
ἶρον οὐδυ[ ]
ἔπλετ’ ὄππ̣[οθεν ἄμ]μες ἀπέσκομεν,
οὐκ ἄλσος . [ χ]ό̣ρος
]ψόφος
. . .οιδιαι
